Of Pawns and Queens
by highfunctioning-homosapien
Summary: Jim and Sherlock play a very dangerous game.  Rating increased to M from K due to drugs
1. Chapter 1

**So after losing the hand-written draft of this (because I am a clumsy fool) and thus getting a small case of writers block, I've more or less started again with the plot. This ****first chapter is more or less the same though. I hope you enjoy it anyway, I personally feel this version is better (mainly as it's actually going somewhere). -MG**

* * *

><p>"Thanks"<p>

"No problem. Bye" John Watson stood in the doorway of 221b. He held a package in his hands, for which he had just signed for. He watched the red van drive down Baker Street and turn the corner. "Sherlock!" He called up the stairs to his flat-mate as he made his way up.

"I didn't order a parcel." Sherlock Holmes stood in his typical blue dressing gown, his eyes were squinting suspiciously at the parcel in his friend's hands. John thought he looked like he was trying to see through the brown paper and to the contents inside.

Sherlock reached out and took it from John, turning it over in his hands.

"You know you could just open it?"

"And it could contain explosives triggered by the opening of its seal."

"Who'd want to blow you up with a parcel?"

"Oh I could think of plenty of people" He replied distractedly, still trying to presuppose its contents.

John was covertly surprised by his friend's calm manner with which he spoke about his fore-planned demise.

Sherlock took the mystery parcel into the kitchen and sliced open the adhesive seal, evidently deciding that the package did not contain explosives. Even so, John still cringed slightly as the knife slid under the seal.

Sherlock tipped the contents into his open palm; a single chess piece fell into his hand. It was a pawn, and tied to it was a note written by hand reading-

_"'White always plays first x'"_

"What? Chess? This is him isn't it. This is Moriarty."

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes lit up at the mention of the consulting criminal's name, giving him a slightly demented look.

"Oh god no. No you can't seriously be happy about this, can you? People are gonna die in this 'game' you have."

"It's a game, yes."

"You don't have to play." John said pointedly.

"You overestimate my self-restaint."

"No Sherlock, seriously I'll call Lestrade, maybe he'll have a cold case for you to look at-"

Sherlock cut him off "Domestic murders and kidnapping? You know they bore me."

"And your boredom is more important that human lives, is it?"

"If I win, lives won't be at stake." John gave a wry laugh.

"You know that's not true. that bloody pawn proves it; he's going first, remember?"

"And he'll kill as many people as he likes whether I play or not. If I don't stop him, no-one will."

John knew that he'd lost the argument. He settled down into his chair defeatedly with his head in his hands. "So what do we do?" He asked.

"We wait."


	2. Chapter 2

"A case, yes I know." Sherlock turned around as D.I Lestrade walked through the doorway of 221b, about to start talking. He wore a slightly disgruntled look as he close his mouth again.

"Yes, of course you know." He muttered to himself more than anyone else.

"Well? Where is it? Give me data." Sherlock prompted.

"Hotel, white male, early thirties, found by the cleaner and no sign of forced entry. No more than that I'm afraid. Will you come?"

"Yes, I'll follow you in a taxi." Sherlock waved his hand distractedly, his mind already working. "John?"

"Hmm? Yes of course, just give me a minute to get my shoes on."

Sherlock's face broke into a grin as Lestrade left. He pulled on his coat and scarf and picked up his phone from the table. John rolled his eyes at his flat mate's expression, well past the point of bothering to scold him for his unusual reaction.

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><p>The hotel was a small one in central London. Despite its prime location, it wasn't of the highest standards. The usual occupants of the rooms being tourists or poorly paid businessmen. The front was blocked off and surrounded by police cars, however Sherlock ignored them all and breezed into the building, John following in his wake. Lestrade caught up to them and showed them up two flights of stairs to the room on the second floor. The door was already open and Sherlock walked in, followed by John and then Lestrade.<p>

Sherlock looked around the room briefly before approaching the body. He was as Lestrade said, a young, white male. He lay face up on the bed, dressed in a plain black suit. Sherlock looked around the deceased, carefully examining him before checking the cupboards and the man's suitcase.

"John, take a look at the body for me will you?" Sherlock said from the floor where he was crouched over the suitcase, his hands resting beneath his chin.

John did as he was told and examined the body. "Been dead a couple of hours I'd say, not long. No signs of physical causes of death, or vomit so I'd say most likely drugs."

"Mmm." Sherlock agreed. "I'll need an autopsy report to be sure but that seems the most likely cause. The man's name was Derek Harvard, he was here for a business meeting and hadn't been at this hotel long. The killer obviously came through the door, so he must also have had a key to this room-"

"Wait, wait. Explain?" Lestrade cut Sherlock off, looking confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but explained his deductions. "His suit is fairly cheap but new, and his suitcase is the same, suggesting he doesn't have much money, obvious also by his choice of hotel, but he has a laptop and a briefcase" Sherlock gestured to both items. "So he's here for work. He's from out of town, no oyster card in his wallet and he obviously can't afford taxis, and _ah_ train ticket receipt." He continued, holding up the receipt. "His credit cards have been removed from the wallet, so the killer wanted him to be anonymous, however I know this man."

"How?" John asked, looking up from the body.

"I went to school with him."

"You sure it's him? I mean it's been a while since you were at school together and you don't strike me as the reunion kind of guy."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Of course I'm sure, Lestrade."

"Alright. How do you know this is a murder not a suicide?"

"Firstly he's at a hotel with a suitcase full of toiletries. People like to die somewhere familiar, usually at home, even so, no-one brings a toothbrush if they're not planning on being there for the night. Secondly-"

"Yeah, alright OK." Lestrade wiped a hand over his brow. "I'll get forensics in here and then get the body to the morgue."

"You won't find the killer's finger prints."

"No?" Lestrade asked.

"No. If he took the effort to get the master key for the rooms, and kill him in such a way, he's not going to be stupid enough to be smearing prints everywhere."

"Even so, it's my job to be thorough."

"Come on John." Sherlock called to his friend as he left the room.

"Was that him do you think?" John asked once they were out of earshot of the police.

"Moriarty? Seems likely."

"Hmm.. It wasn't very like him though, was it?"

Sherlock frowned "What do you mean?"

"Well I expected it to be a bit more... _Showy_."

"I found this in Derek's case." He held up a single chess piece, a knight.


	3. Chapter 3

"Why didn't you tell Lestrade?" John asked.

"He doesn't need to know. This is between Moriarty and I." John merely rolled his eyes. He knew there was nothing he could do to stop Sherlock's fascination with the psychopath, but he couldn't say he liked it.

"So I guess we're just gonna have to sit tight and wait for him to kill another innocent person, are we?" There was a hint or sarcasm in John's voice.

"No-one is completely innocent, John."

John stopped walking with an exasperated sigh. "Does it really not affect you at all? That people are dying and you're doing nothing about it, just so you can get your kicks by outsmarting the police?"

"There's nothing I can do. Believe me, if I could prevent the next murders I would, but I can't do anything, not yet."

"No. No I don't believe you. You could do something but you don't want to. You want to play his bloody game!"

"We've been through this John, caring about people's lives won't help me save them."

"No, maybe not, but just sitting and waiting and not at least trying to prevent the next murder isn't right." John punctuated the last two syllables with his fist and stood glaring into Sherlock's eyes before walking again. Sherlock sighed before walking after John.

"What do you want me to do, John? If I knew how to stop Moriarty, I would have already."

He clenched and unclenched his jaw and sighed. "I don't know Sherlock. I really don't."

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><p>The next murder came the next day. This time a woman but of the same age as Derek Harvard and similarly found in a hotel, her death apparently with the same cause. Again, Sherlock recognized the victim; her name was Johanna Smith.<p>

"What where the room numbers of the two victims?" Sherlock asked Lestrade at the second crime scene.

"Twelve and Thirty Three. Why?"

A grim look came over Sherlock's face momentarily before he regained his composure. "No reason." He said distractedly before leaving. This time John hadn't come with him, saying he "wanted no part in Moriarty's games." Sherlock hadn't bothered arguing with him.

"Anything new?" John asked, lowering his newspaper as Sherlock walked into the flat, throwing his coat and scarf onto the sofa.

"The room numbers."

"Room numbers? What?"

"When I was seventeen, I left home. Not permanently, but I had stayed at a few hotels. The same hotels and room numbers that the two victims were found in. I passed the first off as a coincidence, but it happening twice? No that's not chance. Somehow, Moriarty must know about my childhood." There was a strange tone to Sherlock's voice as he spoke. _Perhaps anxiety?_ _No._ John mentally shook himself. Sherlock didn't get anxious.

"Well that's not disconcerting at all." He said.

Sherlock picked up a packet of nicotine patches from the kitchen table and sat down heavily on the sofa, opening the packet. John silently watched him from behind his paper.

"Did you know the victim this time?" He asked after a while.

"Yes. Her name was Johanna Smith."

"Why is he doing this? Getting people you knew, what's he trying to do?"

"Showing me that he knows more about me than I thought perhaps." He rolled down his sleeve over the patches and lay back on the sofa, his hands under his chin. John didn't ask anymore questions, knowing not to disturb Sherlock when he was deep in thought. John didn't like the way Moriarty seemed to be able to know everything about Sherlock when he barely knew a thing. Despite living with the man for some time and solving crimes with him, he knew next to nothing about Sherlock's past. He frowned in thought, trying to accumulate all his knowledge on his flat mate. He knew he went to University, though which one and what he studied he couldn't say. He knew he had a bad relationship with his family, especially Mycroft, but again, he didn't know what had happened between them. He also knew that Sherlock had a history with drugs, but that was about his limit. It seemed wrong to pry on Sherlock's life, even though Sherlock himself had known all about John's time in the army and his sister's alcoholism after speaking to him for only a couple a minutes, though he supposed that was just Sherlock's way. He could guess someone's deepest secret by the way they walked, or by a stain on their sleeve.

John shook his head and resumed reading the paper.


End file.
